


Vacillatory Expertise

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Integrated Worlds [12]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, cuddling and kisses, dave talking, integrated worlds au, pale/red vacillation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 19:58:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Dave and Karkat talk about Dave's scars. (This entire fic is an excuse to write fluff.)





	Vacillatory Expertise

Dave stretches like he doesn't even see you looking at him; maybe he kind of doesn't. It's entirely possible that he's just kind of...blocking it out, not thinking about your presence on the bed next to him just so he doesn't have to think about the fact that you're looking at his scars—

Then he blinks and smiles at you, and you know he's totally aware of your fascination. "C'mere, babe," he says, and pats the blankets right next to him, closer than you felt comfortable going without asking. 

And you _couldn't_ just ask; what if he didn't want you to be that close, what if he just wanted to lie there with his shirt off, what if— 

"Oh my god, Karkat." He rolls his eyes and reaches over to grab your wrist, pull you in to where he wants you. Which is, apparently, _closer_. "I know it ain't the scars that've got you all quiet. Psii's got worse; I've seen his fuckin' arms and I _know_ they just keep goin' up—" 

"Your accent gets worse when you're nervous, dumbass," you tell him, leaning down to peck his lips just to get him to shut the fuck up. "Or maybe I just notice it more with your fucking word vomit. Do you need your shirt back?" 

"Nope." It's a calm enough answer, and he settles back flat on his back, head turning just slightly so he can keep watching your face, fingers of one hand loosely intertwined with yours. "I've had people see me with my shirt off before, come on. Not a big deal." 

"You wouldn't take it off at the beach, Dave." You trail the fingers of your free hand across the pale skin and paler traces of old wounds on his ribs, watching for any sign that you should stop touching. "Fuck, _John_ didn't wear a shirt in the water, and he's the biggest fucking prude I've ever met." There's a _texture_ to the scarring; not harder like it would be on a troll, but smoother, the lines thickening slightly where they cross. You don't know what to compare his body to. 

Dave cocks an eyebrow at you, not moving at all under your touches. "Who the fuck taught you _that_ word, Katkat?" 

"Number one, where the fuck did you get _Katkat_ from? You're not even close, try again." You wait for him to stop chuckling, then continue, "Number two, Sol called Kankri a prude, then I got Crocker to explain it. Number three, are you dodging the point because you're a little shit, or because you really don't want to answer?" 

"Yeah." For a long minute, he doesn't elaborate. Just closes his eyes as you keep tracing the jigsaw puzzle etched into his skin, the physical memories of a thousand strifes that he didn't have a choice about or a chance to win. 

This is pretty much the first time you've gotten more than a passing glimpse of them. Of him. Usually he's got one shirt off and the new one on before you have time to take a good look, which fucking _sucks_ because even as skinny as he is your quadmate definitely has some muscle going—as in, the kind that makes you seriously wonder about his ability to just pick you right the fuck up off the floor. It's hot.

And beyond that, you're fascinated by his body. The subtle differences in bone and muscle structure between human and troll, the way that he's put together. The quick looks you usually get made you more curious, more enthralled with him; this longer, more intimate examination...

It reminds you (as if you needed it) of how amazingly lovely he is. How fucking much you love him. 

Even the scars, you love. But something in you aches, at the thought of what he went through to earn them. 

Your hand moves further up Dave's chest, following a thicker scar, and he twitches and reaches up to gently relocate it. 

"Do I need to st—" 

"Nah. Just—not there." Another twitch, this one more like a shrug than an involuntary attempt to brush you off. "They don't know." 

"...what?" He's obviously picking up some thread of the conversation from before, but you honestly have no fucking clue which one. Your own musings have managed to drive your short-term memory right out of your pan. Stupid short-term memory. 

"Like, most people? John, the randos at the beach, who _ever_ the fuck is around, like, in public? If I take my goddamn shirt off?" Dave opens his eyes just the tiniest slit, peeking up at you through long white lashes. "Teenagers on Earth, humans, we're not supposed to pick up this many scars this young, y'know?"

"Not really on Alternia either," you tell him, not mentioning that _usually_ , your species doesn't even keep scars beyond a molt or two, unless they cut deep beyond the first few layers of skin like the marks on Dualscar's face, or are linked to really fucking deep trauma like the ones around Terezi's eyes. (Or both, like Psii's.) 

"Yeah, but y'all, you don't—you can—" Dave struggles for a word for another moment, then sighs, giving up and letting himself go limp as you trace the thin marks along his waist. 

There's fewer here. You wonder why. 

"You know Aradia walked in on me getting changed once?" he says suddenly, like it's a change of subject. (You have no idea why he chose to change it to this.) "Like, pants off, dick one layer of goddamn boxer briefs away from saying hello there to her—" 

"Oh my fuck, Dave." 

"—every single fucking mark on me there for her to take a nice long look at, _everything_ , the shit on my legs that you haven't seen yet and the ones on my back that you don't _wanna_ see—and she _did_ see 'em, okay, it seemed like a long-ass time but it wasn't but she still had time to check out everything—and all she did was blink and grin and go _whoops, sorry, I didn't know you were in here_ and pop right the fuck back out..." 

"When did this even happen?" 

"When you had her and Tav over here for that double paledate thing and he dropped a whole-ass soda right in my lap." 

"Oh. That's why it took you twenty minutes to get changed."

Dave hesitates for a second, grimaces slightly, then nods. "Yeah. That's why. Figured she might, like, ask you about it or something, I dunno but it shut me the fuck down for a lil' bit. It's—hey!" 

The last word is a surprised yelp, as you chirr at him and scoop him up into your arms, cuddling him up like an upset grub. Every time he tries to protest or question you, you shoosh him more-or-less aggressively, until he huffs and gives up and wraps both arms around your neck, accepting the fact that he's somehow tripped your pale switches again. 

Which is fucking hilarious, because troll grubs literally do the exact same thing. The squeak, the chirping squeals of complaint that have to be shooshed, the eventual capitulation when they curl up against the person who's holding them and start purring or cooing or whatever the fuck that particular grub does to signal happiness. Dave's behaviour is _exactly_ like that— 

He bumps his forehead against yours, tilting his head slightly once he's sure he has your attention. "You're grinning; how come? What did I do right?" 

The question could be joking, but you're pretty sure it's not. Sometimes Dave really can't tell which of his actions provokes your reaction, which kind of make sense since some shit is decidedly different between your species and his. 

"I was thinking," you tell him, truthfully enough. 

Not that he lets you leave it at that. "About?" 

...eh, he asked for it. "About how much you act like a grub sometimes. A big, weirdly squishy troll grub." You accent _weirdly squishy_ by poking gently at his stomach with one finger; he doesn't have a lot of padding there, but he _is_ a hell of a lot more yielding than you are. Soft. Nice. 

Oh fuck you are _purring_. 

Dave laughs, squirming as you keep poking him and grabbing your hand, leaning up to steal a quick kiss as he tries to keep you from messing with his belly anymore. "C'mon, man, I'm not a grub, you can't _kiss_ grubs—" 

"Fucking watch me—" One hand is enough to hold his head still, if you place it just right, cup the base of his neck so you can keep tickling him with the other as you cover his face in the kind of dumb, wet kisses that he taught you about himself. They're a peculiarly human type of affection, the kind that's overblown and noisy and leave the recipient either laughing or trying desperately _not_ to laugh. 

Dave's doing the former, squirming in your grip and giggling and trying to kiss you back all at the same time. He's _happy_. 

Because of you. Which is a fucking stupid thought, you're not the only reason he has to be happy, but...you can't stop the surge of mingled pride and affection that wells up in your chest. Maybe you don't even want to. 

Dave reaches up with both hands, leaving his stomach unprotected, and grabs your head, one hand on each side as he meets your eyes. He's still laughing and grinning, panting a bit as he tries to catch his breath, and you ease off the tickling and just smile back at him, let him hear you purr all through your chest for him. Only for him. 

And he knows it. 

"I love you," he tells you, and before you can say it back he kisses you, right on the lips this time. 

You love him. 

You love him so fucking much.


End file.
